Demonwood

by Anne Stuart

  At the end of the tedious service we moved down the worn aisle, through the whispering voices and accusatory stares, Lillian and I, and she put one of her gloved hands through my arm in an ostentatiously protective fashion, patting my hand reassuringly and whispering in an agonizingly loud voice, "Pay no attention to them, my dear. It's none of their business."

  The swell of conversation rose, and I could hear a word or two now and then as I kept my head bent low, color flooding my cheeks. Until I stepped out into the winter sunshine and a ball of icy slush hit me full in the face, as a voice called out a filthy name.

  I stood there, stunned, unbidden tears starting in my eyes while a black rage filled my heart, all the blacker for the fact that I knew they were right. I was all the things they called me and more, in my heart if not in my body. And yet surely the desperate longing I felt for Maeve's husband wasn't the evil thing they seemed to think it was.

  "Leave her alone!" Lillian called out stridently, her smaller body making an absurdly inadequate shield in front of my somewhat strapping length. "You should be ashamed of yourselves, all of you." And then she broke into rapid, and to me completely unintelligible, French that for some reason did little to soften the looks of scorn and distrust that blanketed the faces around me.

  "Lillian." I tugged at her arm urgently. "Let's go, Lillian. It doesn't matter—they'll believe what they want to believe, whether it's true or not."

  She broke off, and with a great show of emotion that seemed completely alien to her usual quiet demeanor, she clasped me to her brown silk breast. I could have wished for a little more restraint on her part—by reacting so strongly to the distrust of the townspeople she had only solidified their belief in my sins. But there was nothing I could say to retrieve the damning situation.

  Without waiting for her reply I calmly detached her clinging arms and climbed into the carriage. After a moment she followed, slamming the carriage door as another snow ball hurtled toward us. With a jolt the horses started forward, a no-doubt grimly amused Carpenter driving them, and I leaned back in my plush corner and shut my eyes, willing the tears to go away before Lillian recognized my weakness and responded with anymore emotional outbursts. I had had enough for one day.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next few days passed at an alarmingly uneven pace, the hours flying by whenever I happened to be in the same room as Connell, the minutes dragging when he was off somewhere away from Demonwood. I made no mention of my harrowing church service that day or during the next few ones, but I had made up my mind to leave. I had no other choice.

  I had a hard time keeping Daniel's mind on his studies when he knew his father was around, and my own abstraction didn't help matters. The epic battles of Julius Caesar paled in comparison to Con's company for the both of us, and the seldom appreciated delights of multiplication and long division lost any lingering fascination. Valiantly, I struggled with him for days, and just as valiantly he resisted any effort I made to interest him in his studies. At half- past one on a Friday afternoon I threw up my hands in despair and released him.

  "Thanks, Mary!" He smiled a beatific smile, and then, on impulse, threw his wiry little arms around me and gave me a quick hug before running out of the schoolroom, leaving his poor tutor verging between amusement and tears. Leaving him would be almost as painful as turning my back on Connell. More and more the boy was bestowing unexpected hugs and kisses, and more and more I realized how much he meant to me. He suffered Lillian's lavish embraces with a stoic forbearance and shied away from his mother like a wise child, but apparently I was now on a level close to his beloved father.

  It was a cheering thought amidst all my gloom, and I found myself smiling as I dressed to go out. The sun had chosen this chilly day to shine for the first time in what seemed like weeks, and I intended to make the most of it. Daniel and Connell would be off somewhere, and I doubted if my services would be required elsewhere. Lillian would have things for me to do, or at least want my company, but I intended to sneak out before she caught me. After the church service and her incriminating defense of me, I was more than a little wary of her company. Besides, I needed some time alone to try and think out my damnable situation, to figure out how I could leave while insuring Daniel's continued safety.

  And faith, it was a lovely day outside! The sun shone brightly from the clear blue sky, dazzling my eyes as it bounced off the fresh humps of high-piled snow. I practically skipped through the snow, carefully avoiding the deep drifts as I made my way across the fields. By my own volition I found I was headed for the old farmhouse, and dutifully I turned back. It had been ages since I had been to Perry's Ledge, not since Maeve had returned and bedazzled poor lovesick Peter once more. It was a lovely spot, despite its tragic history, and a good destination on a sunny day like today. Perhaps if I stood on the edge of the cliff and listened very closely to whatever hidden powers my Irish soul had, I would find the answers to the thousands of questions and decisions plaguing me.

  By the time I was halfway up the winding, snowy pathway I was regretting a great many things. First, that I had decided to go at all; second, that I didn't have a horse to ride; and third, that I had ever been fool enough to get myself into such an unpleasant situation. Demonwood was dark and dreary, the wind whispering through the pine trees, telling me to go back, go back. No sun penetrated the thick foliage, only wind and snow and ice, and for the first time I could feel an aura of evil and pain emanating from the dark and secret parts of the forest.

  Don't be an idiot, I told myself sternly. You've been up here many times, never before have you noticed any atmosphere of evil. But I had never come here alone. I had always had Peter with me, light, sunny, flirting Peter, who only turned solemn once, with his words of guilt and shame.

  And suddenly the woods were too oppressive for me to bear. There was evil all around me, and without a moment's hesitation I turned around and started back down the hill to the house, moving as rapidly through the thin crusting of snow as I could in my stout walking boots. And it was with great strength of mind that I kept myself from looking over my shoulder, back into the threatening shadows. And into the eyes that seemed to watch me, waiting for me. Waiting for me to take one misstep, one move in the wrong direction. When I reached the open field I broke into a run.

  I had been out far longer than I had thought. By the time I reached the edge of the woods darkness was already descending, my feet were soaked and numb, and the chill of the wind had bitten through my thin wool cape. Not for the first time I wished I could afford a fur-trimmed wrap like Maeve had. A gift from her not-so-doting husband, I supposed, hurrying across the fields, swerving to avoid the waist-high drifts. Perhaps if I had money and furs and jewels I might be beautiful, too. Though not, I had to be honest, as beautiful as Connell's wives.

  The thought of a fire was enticing enough to make me throw caution to the winds, and without thinking I dashed into the stable, planning to take a shortcut through rather than around the large mansion.

  I had my head bent low against the wind, so that I didn't see him as he approached. A calloused, grimy hand reached out and grabbed my arm, yanking me off to one side.

  "Where are you going in such a hurry, little lady?" Robinson demanded, his brown spaniel's eyes staring hotly into mine.

  I tugged vainly in his iron grip. "I'm cold. Let go of me, Robinson," I said sharply, trying to control the rush of uneasiness that flooded my chilled body.

  "Oh, no," he said softly, his words slightly slurred, and there was the smell of cheap whiskey on his breath. "I've heard that you've taken a fancy to me. I thought I'd give you a little taste of what you're missing." His arms snaked around me, oblivious to my struggles. I tried kicking, but he held me too closely to his large, heavily muscled body, I squirmed and fought, silently, desperately, as his great paws ripped away my cape and tore open the front of my dress. He pressed his mouth on my firmly shut lips, and it felt as if my jaw would break. Pulling one hand free, I raked my nails d
own one side of his handsome face, and then screamed at the top of my lungs.

  A moment later I was flat on my back in the hay, my head reeling from the slap he'd given me. And then his heavy body covered mine, muttering curses and threats and filth as he ripped away at my clothing. I fought like a woman possessed, but I was no match for him. I could feel my strength ebbing, feel myself ceasing to struggle as the nightmare closed in around me . . .

  And suddenly the weight was off me. I lay there, winded and stunned in the semidarkness, slowly trying to gather my disordered senses together as I listened to the unmistakable sounds of a fight. I sat upright groggily, pulling my shredded clothing around my shivering body, and as my eyes began to focus I saw two figures rolling around on the floor.

  The whole scene was nightmarish—the rolling, tumbling bodies, Robinson's muttered grunts and curses. But the groom, for his burly strength, was no match for his attacker. In another moment Connell Fitzgerald had him pinned to the floor and was slowly, silently, savagely beating him to death.

  I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Instead I was forced to watch in mute, sick horror the animal violence of the man I loved. I couldn't even shut my eyes to block out the sight of Con's merciless face as he bent over his victim.

  I had seen fights before, and furious, physical men by the dozen. How could I have avoided it, growing up with red-blooded Irishmen? But I had never seen such a cold, murderous rage as I saw in his face.

  Suddenly the stable was full of people. Carpenter was firmly dragging Con away from Robinson's limp body with the stern injunction to "Give over, sir, before you kill the man." He stood upright, wavering slightly, and then his maddened, glazed eyes focused on mine. Focused and recognized the disbelieving horror in my face as I stared at his blood-soaked hands. And then I couldn't bear to look at him a moment longer. I turned and vomited into the straw.

  "But this is delightful!" Maeve announced brightly from the door, her filmy pink dress whipping about her in the rising wind. "An absolutely savage battle over a lady's honor. Did you kill him, darling?"

  At her cool, cheerful words a fresh spasm of nausea rose in me, and I barely managed to control it. "I don't know," Con replied shortly. "Nor do I care." He started out the door.

  "But aren't you going to help your lady fair?" she questioned sweetly. "You shouldn't miss such an opportunity to have her fall into your arms."

  He hesitated, then turned back to me for a moment. Just long enough to see my instinctive recoil. An ironic smile twisted his mouth for a moment. "I'm sure your ministrations will be much more welcome, Maeve." And I watched him leave the stable with tears in my eyes, damning myself for a cowardly fool, wishing I could have wiped that look of horror from my eyes before he had seen it.

  Maeve looked across the stable at my shivering form, contempt on her pink lips. "What a stupid ninny you are, Mary. Con never lifted a finger to defend my honor. If it had been me he was fighting over I would have cheered him on, and when he'd finished he would have taken me right there and then, in the straw like the animals we are. And I would have reveled in it!" And indeed, she looked like a great, magnificent cat, her shoulders flung back defiantly.

  Words rose to my mouth, bitter, damning words. I wanted to call her a filthy, mindless slut; a squalid, rutting little beast, but I clamped my teeth firmly down on my battered lips. I knew all too well the words would have been directed at me, not her. And that the sick horror that had filled me as I watched Connell's primal violence had been horror directed at my own insane, debased wantonness. For through the fear and terror that had assailed me I was aware of one strong feeling above all others. When he had beaten Perley Robinson unconscious, I wanted him to come over to me and rip aside my tattered clothes and finish what Perley had started. And I wanted it so badly that even now in retrospect my self-disgust threatened to overwhelm me. I stared at my cousin with hate in my eyes as she stood there, flaunting all the darker things of my soul. It was like looking into a mirror, I thought with horror, despising myself all the more.

  I lay awake in my massive bed that evening. Lillian had tucked me in, brought me a steaming mug of coffee laced very liberally with the good Irish, and sat with me for an hour, commiserating over the evilness of Robinson until I wanted to scream at her to be quiet. I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, to try to forget the horrifying memory of my animalistic reaction in the stable. Given peace and quiet and enough time, I knew I could come to terms with it. But no one wanted to leave me alone.

  Even Daniel came up for a bit, speaking cheerfully of his afternoon. I couldn't tell what had been given him as an explanation for my bed-ridden state, for the bruises around my neck and arms. It certainly hadn't been the truth, for after a lull in the conversation he had announced brightly that Perley Robinson had had an accident.

  "He's gone away for good, too," he chattered. "Carpenter took him into town to see the doctor, and Mrs. Carpenter says he's not coming back. I'm glad, aren't you, Mary? I never liked him, not one bit. Maybe we'll get someone new to take care of the horses, someone nice and friendly. Maybe he could go hunting with me when Father's gone." This last was a bit wistful, and I gave his thin hand a squeeze.

  "If he won't go hunting with you I will," I said grandly, only to meet Daniel's skeptical blue eyes, so like his father's that they practically broke my heart to look into them.

  "Girls can't hunt," he announced flatly.

  "And who gave you that silly idea?" I demanded, my righteous indignation bringing me bolt upright. "I used to go hunting with my brothers all the time."

  "Did you ever get anything?" he inquired with justifiable suspicion.

  "Well, not really," I admitted. "But I came close."

  Daniel dismissed this, as well he should, and half an hour later made his escape with the cheerful note that, "We won't have lessons tomorrow, will we? Not with you being sick and all."

  "Don't count on that, me boy," I replied, and his face fell in ludicrous dismay. "We've missed too many lessons as it is. You'll never be ready for school come next fall."

  "But tomorrow's Father's last day!" he wailed. "He's going back to Boston with Aunt Lillian and he won't be back till it's time for me to go to school."

  "When did he decide that?" I kept my voice admirably steady.

  "Just tonight, I think. We'll be here all alone; even Mother's going. We'll have plenty of time to study then. So, you see, you've got to let me spend tomorrow with him."

  And I had agreed, too bemused and distraught to hold out against his pleas. As I lay in my slowly chilling room through the hours that followed, I thought I knew why Con was leaving. The horror and disgust in my face had not left him unmoved, though why he should care about my opinion I had no idea. But I had a strong suspicion that he did care, and that thought kept me wide awake and restless through the long hours of the evening.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When I awoke the room was pitch black. Not even a tiny glow emanated from the fireplace, and the cold, icy air hung heavy in the room. A small shiver crept over me, and then another, until I lay there beneath my mound of blankets and quilts trembling uncontrollably with the cold. I struggled upright, noticing through the gloom that the secret doorway was open, and a stiff breeze was blowing through the opening. Using words no lady should use, I struggled out of bed and slammed the door shut behind Maeve's path, but by that time the air in my room was scarcely more than a degree or two warmer than the attic. My teeth chattered so loudly that I thought my head would fall off, and without a moment's hesitation I left the room, running lightly in my bare feet, not bothering with the meager protection my thin and worn nightrobe would afford me. Swiftly, silently I moved through the sleeping house, down the chilly flights of stairs and straight into Connell's study. He had obviously been up late, for glorious red coals were glowing in the hearth.

  I had to use both hands to pour the whiskey, they were shaking so badly. I swallowed half a glassful of the stuff, gasped, and poured m
yself another stiff shot. That followed the first, and slowly the heat began to spread through my trembling body. I tipped the bottle into the glass once more.

  "You'll be very drunk if you drink all that," Connell spoke from just behind me, and I whirled around, immediately conscious of the thinness of my nightdress, my hair loose down my back like a complete hoyden, my bare feet on the soft, Oriental carpet. "What are you doing down here, anyway?" he asked with complete unconcern.

  "I . . . I was cold," I stammered nervously. He was sitting in the wing chair, his long black hair disordered, his linen shirt rumpled, a glass of whiskey in one long, well-shaped hand. I stared at him for a moment, all the longing and despair in my face for him to see. But he wasn't looking at me—his eyes were brooding into the dying embers of the fire.

  "I . . . I want to thank you for . . . for helping me this afternoon," I stumbled over the words, feeling shy and incoherent.

  He shrugged. "Any time," he offered nonchalantly. At his casual tone a wrenching pain assailed me. Slowly, surreptitiously I tried to edge past his chair to the door, determined to escape before I disgraced myself. His hand whipped out and caught my wrist in a crushing hold, dragging me to my knees beside his chair.

  "Don't struggle," he said in a cold, hard voice, "and it won't hurt."

  I considered hitting him, biting him, kicking him. Those dark, fathomless eyes had mesmerized me, like a beast of prey hypnotizes its victims into helpless compliance with their cruel fate, and I ceased pulling away. "That's better," he murmured, in no way relaxing his hold on me. My fingers were growing numb in his steely grip. "Surely you wouldn't want to deny me your company? I won't be here much longer."

  "Daniel said you were going away," I acknowledged in a low voice. "Why?"